My future isn’t defined by a campus name
“She probably didn’t get in anywhere else, that’s why she chose community college.” This was the whisper I imagined behind every glance, every nod, every conversation that trailed off when I spoke my choice aloud.
Growing up, I always poured all of my heart into my education. I’d tuck myself away in my room with textbooks and highlighters, often overhearing the laughter of my brother and his friends drifting in from outside like echoes of a life I wasn’t living. Part of me longed for their ease, the way they could live untouched by the weight of tomorrow’s tests and looming deadlines. As I grew older and pushed myself further, the more the questions changed. They weren’t the kind I could prepare for with flashcards or late nights but instead: quiet, aching ones that lived in my chest, the kind only I could answer. Questions about who I was, what I wanted and where my future layed ahead. I never knew how to answer when someone asked what I wanted to be or which college I dreamed of attending. I would always dread those questions and leave those conversations with a gut-wrenching feeling, reassuring myself that someday, when it mattered, I’d finally have the answer. From those moments on, I poured myself into school with the idea that if I worked hard enough, I’d open every possible door, so that when the time came, I could choose freely—whichever path felt right. But the time did come, and I still didn’t have the answer.
I felt hopeless. As I scrolled through endless lists of colleges and essay prompts that I’d have to answer at some point, it felt like I had poured so much of my time into simply succeeding in school that I never truly figured out who I was or what I wanted. While on paper I may have had what it took to get into these universities, I didn’t have it in my heart. Aside from simply not knowing where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do, seeing the costs of these universities felt like an even bigger pushback. All my life, my dad has worked tirelessly to support my brother and I, coming home late yet somehow still finding the light to laugh with us and to be present, never letting us see his exhaustion in the slightest. I know deep in my heart that if he could, he would work the rest of his life every day to be able to afford to send me to one of these schools. While I would never want him to do that, just knowing that he would is something for which I consider myself indefinitely fortunate for. It is the support and love I receive from him, my mom and my family that will push me in life and help garner my success, not whatever university I end up at.
Today, we live in a society where one’s worth seems to be equated to whatever school one attended. But this is simply not true, and I look to the lives of my Uncle Miri and my Aunt Rena as inspiration and as evidence of the faults in that perception. My aunt and uncle came to the United States from Albania with little more than determination and a will to succeed. Without the noise of societal expectations of prestige and perception, they attended Moorpark Community College, looking to it as nothing less than an educational opportunity and stepping stone in their journeys. They dedicated themselves fully, balancing work and study to complete their general education and transfer to Cal State Northridge, where they earned their degrees. Today, Rena works in the finance department for the City of Camarillo, and Miri is a financial advisor. They’ve taught me that no school will ever define you or where you end up in life, but instead it is the passion within your own heart that will light your path for you.
Though no one outright criticized my choice, it wasn’t their reactions that hurt—it was the version of their thoughts I created in my own mind. It felt like every time I told someone, I was bracing myself—not just to explain my choice, but to protect the years of effort and achievements my younger self worked so hard for. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had disappointed some invisible expectation. What I sensed people didn’t see was the thought and idea behind my choice: the desire to grow at my own pace and the hope of becoming who I’m meant to be, without rushing or drowning in debt. Looking back, I realize now that much of that judgement wasn’t actually theirs—it was my own self-inflicted judgement. It took time to rediscover my strength beneath the weight of doubt, but in the end, I didn’t just unlearn that belief, I proved it wrong. I started to see that choosing a different path didn’t mean I lacked direction or merit; it meant I had the courage to define success on my own terms.
